Chushan-Rishathaim
by hiddlesbatchlover
Summary: Gay dementors and Wolfstar
1. Chapter 1

The dark hooded cloak was barely visible in the darkness. Rattling breaths filled the room, no footsteps echoed. Any form of light was quickly snuffed out by the shutters covering the windows. Cold moonlight was frozen before it could breach through the cracks in the door. The single room shrouded in black shadow.

The crouched figure of an old, heavily bearded man scuttled further back; as though hoping beyond all rationality that the dank walls would expand and envelope him in their damp, hiding him forever from the cloak ahead of him. The thief had only minutes.

Quiet little huffs of timid breath formed patterns in the stagnant air; dust, disturbed from its slumber, swirled and danced as though a warning.

The figure floated forward, patient, and graceful. It had all the time in its hard, cold world. The thief had a minute.

A rustle, the perfect imitation of a sigh, accompanied the rising of a great, dark sleeve. Clammy, skeletal claws rose, pushing back it's hood; the only mask from fate. Bending, leaning toward the trembling man, a last shaky breath. The thief had seconds.

Deep purple, almost black, lips of bone stretched. Sounds of suction filled the room. Outlines of the gaps in the wall blurred between the figures, extorted until no shape was visible between the kiss.

The body of the old man slumped onto the floor, cracks replacing the hush of the room. A single, simple, small blue light shone through the dark, elevating higher, away from the mouth of the man, vanishing in the void of the hood. The thief was no more.

Sprigs of grass and once vibrant chrysanthemums froze, ice shone, following the cloaked figure over rolling hills, nearing the vast expanse of ocean. The corpse left, a precise window to life, in the chilled cabin behind; the thief in his deserved coffin.


	2. Chapter 2

The giant face of igneous rock rose out of the depths, the dark grey, cracked walls of the prison looming above it. Sea frozen around it, as more dark shapes flew by, guarding the outside world from the real horror story inside.

Screams of anguish drowned in the fierce waves forcing themselves to the edge of rock, trying to cut their way through to the evils within, before they froze as a stray cloak floated above. Cries of pain were lost to the harsh, biting winds. Rain: the constant companion, ignoring the manic shouts of laughter occasionally shaking the fortress.

A predatory smell of hunger emanated from the dank place, sourced from the same creatures that guarded it. The very atmosphere radiated nightmares; regret, suicide, hurt; death. All life sucked out, all happiness forced away; by the indomitable torture that was existence here.

The inside was disturbing to even the hardiest. People shackled to floors, walls, ceilings, with chains larger than hands, all flawlessly connected so not even the sharpest eyes could discern a joint. Each in a single, bare cell; estranged, bedraggled, inmates shrieked and cackled shrilly, some arguing with inner demons, others just fighting the world at large.

The cool mist in the corridors thickened as the hooded creature entered, flowing down a large, stone spiral staircase opening into a large room, where four more of the hooded cloaks were sat on rickety, woodworm infested chairs, waiting; clawed hands stretched in front.

None rose as the newest addition entered the space, but all hoods turned in the direction. The late arrival pulled up another wood chair, cloak flowing in a non-existent breeze, and sat to face it's kin.

"Hey, how'ya' doin'?" A raspy, scratched voice issued from the dementor nearest, in what sounded like a Swedish accent.

"It is done." Replied the late-comer, in a strong Australian twang. "Hey, cooky, you got another stain." The accent had now switched to a rich Russian accent.

The dementor sat furthest away, looked down. A large yellow stain was smeared just above the hem under the left sleeve.

The dementor looked up at the other.

"It is blood" It stated. A deep English West Country accent issued from the hood.

The room grew colder, ice forming over the cracked walls. Darkness began to shrink the room.

Minutes passed before the dark cold was gone, no trace left of it being there at all.

"Or it's the chicken korma from lunch." The voice sounded like a laugh, it's West Country accent gone, and replaced with a hearty Swiss.

The newest dementor rocked back, a skeletal hand clasped, clutching at where the heart should be in a human.

"I missed korma." The hood now collapsed forward onto the dark wood table, head bent to rest on crossed arms, hiding the hood opening. Great rasps sounded as the dementor shook. Ice beginning to drag across the stone tiled floor towards it.

The other dementors shook differently, hacking cough-like laughs erupting at the fake sorrow.

"I always told you; you should have been an actor, Agnimukha." The first dementor to speak commented.

Agnimukha rose it's head and let out a rough laugh.

"I could have been a star!" The dementor now rose, lifting and floating through the air gracefully. Dark sleeves retracted, and rotting skeletal arms waved through the air; exaggerated expressions of speech.

"Wherefore /art/ thou, my dear sweet korma? How could you leave me so!"

The dementor now crouched small, facing the other side. Dark shadows returning slightly.

"I hate you." The now Australian accent stated.

Swiftly, fluidly rising again, it turned once more.

"But we loved each other!" It cried, back in its Russian drawl. "What did I do?!"

Crouching.

"You're never around! You always miss our lunch dates and you haven't taken me out for dinner once! I've had enough. I'm leaving!"

Agnimukha stood again for the final time in it's performance, leaving it's Australian accent for it's Russian counterpart.

"You /can't/ leave me! I need you, my chicken! Don't leave. No!" Agnimukha cried. Before bowing with a flourish, and sitting back down.

The other dementors clapped, wiping away fake tears. Before they all collapsed laughing on each other, Agnimukha included.

"Well I don't know what else you'd expect me to be! I've been around Kanika, I've just picked it up from them."

"How?! She dropped Performance Studies." The nearest dementor cried.

"And she's now a vet. She's paid to make little kids believe Bluebell the rabbit and Spot the dog are all in animal heaven." It now began to imitate a higher voice range, as though talking with a child. "Did you know doggy-heaven is filled with bones for them to dig up, rolling hills and streams to play in, all the food and treats they could possibly want."

"You make a good case. But if we're going with her jobs, you should also be the cleaner here." It let out another raspy laugh, as Agnimukha somehow managed to look disgusted. The dementor that spoke motioned to Agnimukha.

"See! How the bloody hell do you /manage/ that?!" The dementor now sounded exasperated, shaking it's hood.

The furthest dementor now rose fluidly, pulling a stained cloth from the back of it's chair. Marks in bloody red, mouldy green, and other indiscernible stains covering what was once a white fabric. The dementor's long, bony fingers unfolded the cloth, turned, wrapped a string around itself, and turned back.

The black, hooded cloak that had bought ruin down on many a young family, stirred terror wherever it went, a universal symbol of horror, was now stood in the opposite doorway wearing an apron; 'kiss the cook' emblazoned across the front in pink, with a large pair of red lips underneath.

"Laters babes!" With that the dementor floated through the open door.

The other dementors turned to each other.

"I love having a gay best friend."


End file.
